


Veni; Vidi; Velcro (I came, I saw, I stuck around)

by Trista_zevkia



Category: Sherlock BBC
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-06
Updated: 2012-07-06
Packaged: 2017-11-09 08:20:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,270
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/453345
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trista_zevkia/pseuds/Trista_zevkia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When forced to retire to Athens, soldier John comes to the attention of the wrong people, until the right person gets injured.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Veni

**Author's Note:**

> There was a recent story, very well done, with a similar title, the more tradition form of that Latin quote. This is not that story;)

**Artist Extraordinary:**[xSilverDreamsx](http://xsilverdreamsx.livejournal.com/)  
 **Beta Goddess:**[ecto-gammat](http://ecto-gammat.livejournal.com/) (all remaining mistakes are mine own, as I can't leave well enough alone)

  


Mike knew better than to be on this side of town this late at night, he really did. But his wife, despite having a figure that reflected having three children, didn’t care for the weight Mike had put on recently. There was a young man on this side of town who relished Mike’s weight, finding new and creative uses for those rolls of skin. So Mike was on the bad side of town at the wrong time, and really should have expected to get pulled off the dark street and into the darker alley. 

“Money and clothes, now!” 

The knife at Mike’s throat really emphasized the reasonableness of the request and Mike complied as best he could with shaking hands. 

“Marcus, release that man!” A strong voice filled the alley and the knife wielder turned Mike to face the speaker. 

“Back off, Sherlock, or I’ll kill him!” 

The tall, skinny man, apparently named Sherlock, rolled his eyes at this threat, which didn’t do much for Mike’s confidence. 

“I’ve got proof of your extortion scheme, do you really want to add murder to the charges?” 

“If it’s your murder!” Marcus yelled, throwing Mike aside to launch himself at Sherlock. 

Mike was rather glad to fall to the ground and be ignored while the two men struggled. Marcus was huge and armed, but the skinny man, Sherlock, was quick and skilled. It looked to be a fair contest, so Mike decided leaving them to it would be best. A strangled noise caught Mike’s attention as he got to his feet and he turned to watch Marcus fall. Relieved Sherlock had won, since Sherlock had saved him after all, Mike started to offer his thanks. 

Sherlock wavered a moment, and collapsed to his knees, long arms wrapping around his stomach. Mike silently cursed his chosen profession and its requirement that he help those in pain (though the fact that this guy had saved him might have factored into his decision to remember his profession at this time). Mike moved over to kneel beside Sherlock, placing a hand over the area of the wound. 

“If you start praying,” Sherlock threatened even as blood seeped around his pressing hand. “To that waste of time Asclepius, my last act in this world will be to take you to Hades with me.” 

“You saved my life, I’d have to do something to help even if I wasn’t a priest of Asclepius’.” 

“I’m open to suggestions.” Sherlock muttered, as he seemed to slowly slide to his right. 

Mike caught him, and looked around for inspiration. Realizing where he was, Mike actually found it. “I know a guy; he can help without praying. You can lean on me, but you’ll have to walk.” 

The blood had ruined Sherlock’s clothes by the time they both got to their feet. Sherlock threw a long arm over Mike’s shoulder and let him lead the way. Mike got turned around once, as so many of these shacks looked alike, the people in them being too poor to bother updating the outside. At last though, Mike saw the door he was looking for, the one with a splash of red paint across it. With Sherlock wrapped around him, almost unconscious, Mike settled for kicking the door. No voice sounded from within so Mike kicked until the door was yanked open. 

“Not the place for you, Mike.” Watson was calm, as always, making Mike love the man even more. 

“He refused my help, but saved me and deserves help.” 

“In then.” Watson muttered, stepping back to open the door as wide as he could. 

The hovel was almost too small and sparsely furnished, so Mike only had to heave Sherlock over to the one small bed. Once that was done, Mike could sit on the chair and get his breath back. His wife was right: he needed to lose weight and stop seeing that boy. Shaking the thoughts out of his head, Mike turned to watch Watson work. 

“Mike, come stand over here and close your eyes.” Watson commanded, and Mike obeyed. 

Standing next to Sherlock, Mike pretended to close his eyes and let Watson use his hands. Watson had cut away the ruined clothes and washed Sherlock off. Now he was using Mike’s hands to hold the edge of the cut skin together while he readied a needle with a strange thread. Mike wasn’t a fighter or an adventure seeker, but he had once been almost as curious as Initiate Watson. 

“So, Watson. That thread you are about to use to sew those leather boots of yours, what would that be made of?” 

“Cattlegut, or catgut as some call it. Perfect for the type of leather that has to move.” Watson was willing to go along with Mike’s cowardly curiosity, which was why they were still friends after all this time. “If the leather starts to creak, you might have to hold it in a different place.” 

Mike allowed himself a moment to work out what that meant, but Sherlock solved it first; not bad for a man thought to be unconscious. 

“I won’t scream, just fix me already.” Sherlock was attempting to see what Watson was about to do, curiosity lighting up his drawn face. 

“See that you remember that.” Watson growled and began stitching. 

Sherlock yelped when the needle pierced him, and hissed as it slid through. Watson was quick and skilled; he was tying off the knot before Sherlock could complain coherently. Sherlock lay back and breathed heavily for a few minutes and Watson used this time to wash the wound again. Bandaging the wound, Watson had to put up with Sherlock watching him. When Watson moved off, Mike felt it was acceptable for him to return to the chair and mop his brow. 

“What’s this?” Sherlock asked as if he expected poison. 

Mike turned and saw that Watson held a cup of liquid in his left hand and was offering it to Sherlock. His right hand held the cane Watson had used since his injury, yet Mike couldn’t remember seeing it when Watson answered the door. Mike dismissed the thought and watched Watson roll his eyes at Sherlock. 

“Whatever it is, I was about to drink it when you knocked on my door. Drink it or I will.” 

“Fine!” Sherlock snapped, his arm reaching up to grasp it but missing the mark several times. 

Watson slid a hand behind his head and hoisted him up, before holding the cup to Sherlock’s lips. When it was gone, Watson limped over to sit beside Mike. 

“Watson, you’re a godsend.” 

“Forget the jokes and tell me what’s going on.” 

“You used to laugh a lot more.” Mike shook his head, but Watson didn’t acknowledge this truth. “I was visiting a friend of mine and walked into a mugging. Then this Sherlock turned up, recognized the mugger and they got into a fight. The mugger knifed him in the stomach, and Sherlock refused prayer.” 

Mike turned to see what Sherlock had to say, but the man looked to be asleep. Mike turned his attention back to Watson, surprised at the annoyance on his friend’s face. 

“Injured man on your hands, and you brought him to me, leaving a trail of blood a blind man could track.” 

“Oh.” 

“Yes, Mike. Oh.” Watson stood, patting Mike on the shoulder as he walked away. “I’ll do what I can for him, naturally. I just hope he has a good idea what to say when they come knocking.” 

“You know thinking in emergencies is your specialty. If I could take him home with me, I would.” 

“He can’t be moved for a while. He seems strong, but he lost a lot of blood; he might not make it.” 

“If that happens, I’ll help.” Mike wasn’t sure what he was agreeing to, but he was sure that Watson was smart enough to trust. Watson had covered Sherlock up with a blanket and was going through the ruined tunic. Finding nothing of interest, Watson dropped it on the fire. The pants would be fine with a good washing, so Watson turned back to Mike, just as the door was kicked in. 

“Watson!” A man stood in the door, the boiled leather of his armor adding to the effect of towering rage he was going for. Behind him were several guardsmen, smirking beneath their helmets. 

Mike felt his stomach abandon him as he realized what was going on. Watson was caught, and the way his hand gripped his cane showed he knew it. Watson was a thinker, a fighter, and very skilled in many things, but Mike was better at talking. 

“What’s going on?” Mike jumped to his feet to ask, his voice slightly hysterical. 

“Watson is accused of blasphemy and oath breaking.” The spokesmen leveled a finger at Watson, for that added bit of melodrama. 

“Oh, dear! And to think I just brought him a bag of my wife’s best cherry tarts.” 

Now the spokesman snapped his eyes to Mike, but Watson was too focused on the threat in the room to do the same. Mike nodded like an idiot. 

“Yes, I was bringing them when the bag started leaking. It must have made an awful mess, and it didn’t help that I couldn’t stop eating them.” Here Mike pointed to the places on his shirt that were covered in Sherlock’s blood. “We ate them quickly, but still managed to get the jelly everywhere.” 

The spokesman licked his lips and let his eye flicker around the small room. “Who’s in the bed?” 

“Poor Sherlock!” Mike didn’t have to fake the concern in his voice, but turned to look at the bed, scanning the room as he did so: one table, two chairs, and one bed, all highlighted by a cozy fire. There were two chests for personal items; one for Watson’s clothes and the other was probably for his medical supplies (or maybe for someone else’s clothes?). “Sherlock isn’t used to eating so much so quickly, and laid down with a stomachache just before you came in.” 

“That doesn’t tell me who he is.” 

“Fair point, good sir. Sherlock is Watson’s lover, that’s why he was naked when I came in.” 

Watson didn’t turn to look at Mike at these words; his head jerked like he wanted to, but his training took over. 

The spokesman hesitated. He wanted to bring Watson in, but couldn’t argue with a witness. He needed a push one way or the other, but Mike wasn’t sure what that might be. 

“Watson?” Sherlock called from the bed, his naked arm emerging from the blanket to wave at Watson. “Where are you, love?” 

“I’m here, Sherlock.” Watson called, and Mike hoped the militia would think Watson was too tense to respond in the lovelorn tone Sherlock had used. “Just dealing with some company; I’ll be with you in a minute.” 

“You watch yourself, Watson.” The spokesman growled, complete with threatening finger in Watson’s face, before turning. He had to shoo the guardsmen out of the doorway so he could leave, and Watson watched them. Stepping to the door, Watson kept watching them until they were all out of sight before he closed the door. 

“You couldn’t have said he was your lover, Mike?” Watson sagged against the door. 

Mike collapsed back into his chair and tried for the nonchalance Watson had. “You said he couldn’t be moved. They’d think it was strange if I left my lover in another man’s house.” 

It was obvious now that Mike said it, but he sure hadn’t thought that much about it before. His brain had said it was Watson’s bed so it must be Watson’s lover. 

“Fine. It’s all fine.” Watson moved, limping towards his bed. A quick check under the blanket showed Sherlock’s movement hadn’t restarted the bleeding. Tucking the blanket back over Sherlock’s body, Watson spoke to him. “You seem the sort to try and ignore my advice, but I’m going to tell you anyway. Maybe it’ll save me having to pick your arse off my floor. You need rest, so stay here until I get back.” 

“Where are you going?” Sherlock asked, though his reply was quiet and mumbled. 

“Walking Mike home to make sure he doesn’t get into any more trouble.” 

“Clean up the trail, so they don’t see the blood in daylight.” 

“The thought had occurred to me.” Watson said, but seemed amused by something. He turned away to speak to Mike. “Come on, let’s get you home.” 

“You’ve never said a more beautiful thing.” Mike smiled, and let Watson take over. Watson was very practical, after all. 

  


  


  


Watson kept the noise of his footsteps and cane to a minimum, sneaking through Athens. With a rag and a skin of water he’d borrowed from Mike, Watson cleaned the blood trail back to his place. He knew he should have taken that place two streets over, as it didn’t have the gravel road of this street, or a certain neighbor. Polishing rocks in the predawn light wasn’t doing his back any favors. And, just to top off his night, he didn’t even have his bed to look forward to. Even Sherlock’s scrawny frame filled the narrow cot (Watson ignored thinking about how much of the man’s legs were hanging off the end) and the only way for two people to share involved quite a bit of closeness.

Still, it was with relief that Watson saw the splash of red that marked his door. He’d have been better off not putting graffiti on his door, but it did help people in need find him. Opening that marked door showed Watson that the red also reminded spear-happy arseholes where he lived. Moran was sitting at Watson’s table, watching his fire die. Moran did love watching things die, which was why he’d never be a friend of Watson’s. 

“Didn’t get your fill of humiliation dragging your men in here last night?” Watson asked as he closed the door and limped to his other chair. He was so not making this man tea. 

“You and I both know the fat man was lying for you.” 

“We both know that, do we?” 

“Tall, skinny, handsome creature like that, winds up in your bed? Whole world knows it’s not because he’s in love with a cripple.” 

“What’s love got to do with sex, Moran? Did you ever consider that I’m just that fantastic in bed?” 

Moran threw back his head and laughed, but didn’t take his eyes off Watson. 

Watson did what he always did; he endured. 

“Watson, if you’re that good, I’m sure he wouldn’t mind waking up on your cock.” 

“He’s sick, remember? Stomach ache from eating too many sweets.” 

“Ah, he got sweets. So you sucked down his salty cum, and that fat priest’s as well?” 

“Yes, be as crude as possible, that’ll make me take you seriously.” 

“It’s not me you’ve got to take seriously, I’m just the messenger.” 

“Never met a man who enjoyed delivering bad news more.” 

“I’ll admit to that, if you admit you could do more good works for Him.” 

The capitalization was always in Moran’s voice, just as his eyes went strange whenever he talked about his Boss. Watson could never tell if it was the look of a prepubescent with a first crush or the eyes of a madman finding his version of reason. Either way, it was fucking creepy on a grown man, and not a good reason for Watson to go work for this Moriarty. Instead he made a snorty, dismissive sound and looked away without taking his eyes off of Moran. 

“It’s not good I’d be doing, teaching you to kill better.” 

“What He wants, He gets, and He wants you to teach Him that thing you do. And if I ever catch you doing it, He’ll have every right in the world to force you to teach Him.” 

“If he could force me, we wouldn’t be having this charming conversation.” 

“If you’re weary of my conversation, go fuck your boyfriend and I’ll know he’s not wounded. Refuse, and I’ll take you in right now.” 

“Watson, lover, it’s alright.” The third party in the room spoke up, smiling, looking pale and wane against the brown of the blankets. “I’m still sick from eating too much too fast, but if he needs proof of your sexiness, I’m up for that.” 

Watson stood, taking the two steps so he could perch on the side of the bed. With a gentle kiss to Sherlock’s forehead, Watson whispered in his ear. 

“He’s not bluffing.” 

“He’s boring.” Sherlock whispered back, tongue pausing to lick Watson’s earlobe. “I don’t care what you have to do to get rid of him.” 

“Watson, I’ve got all day, if you’re having performance issues.” 

Watson knew if Moran had heard the whispering he’d have been over here arresting them. Watson also knew he didn’t have any better ideas for getting rid of Moran. With a heavy sigh, he slid the blanket up to expose Sherlock’s cock. With the amount of blood Sherlock had lost, Watson didn’t believe he’d be up to this, but careful placement of the blanket now lowered the chance of the bandage being exposed. 

“Don’t hide from me.” Moran called, and Watson pictured disemboweling the man. 

Sherlock shifted beside him, as if uncomfortable with what he was seeing in Watson’s face. 

Watson smiled, embarrassed by his violent thoughts and trying to reassure Sherlock. Standing, Watson dropped his pants and shucked his tunic, letting Moran get a good view of what he was about to do. Sherlock’s eyes darted over him, looking at Watson in a way that made him blush. It was intense, as if he was memorizing every detail and reading the history of every scar. Those strange eyes finally focused on the spear wound in Watson’s left shoulder, allowing Watson to stop staring back. He had a job to do, making love to the beautiful man spread out under him. Not the worst job Watson had ever had, and he had the man’s permission, but he still paused. 

“Can’t perform in front of an audience, or not at all?” Moran asked, mocking the perceived weakness. 

“Can you perform at all, or only when your boss orders you to?” Sherlock answered, focusing his gaze and scorn on Moran. 

Moran jerked to his feet, giving Watson time to repress the laugh. Instead, Watson held out a placating hand, unsure of how to mediate peace without revealing Sherlock’s injuries. 

Sherlock found the solution first, grabbing Watson’s other arm and pulling him down so they could kiss. 

Watson forgot about their audience, all of his soldier’s training melting into how _right_ this kiss felt. Sherlock stiffened for a moment, as if surprised about how good the kiss felt, but rebounded quickly. Watson found his torso dragged further down as he chased Sherlock’s kiss. Long fingers traced lightly over Watson’s wounded shoulder, making all of his skin react. 

When breathing became difficult, Watson stood without breaking the kiss. His naked arse didn’t stay pointing at Moran for long, as from his bent position he was able kick his legs out to lie down on top of Sherlock. Cock to cock and careful of putting weight on the injury, damned inconveniently placed as it was, as they continued to kiss. 

Some part of Watson’s mind was screaming in frustration about the lack of lubricant in his possession, but the part that _should_ have been saying something about the situation was as stunned into silence as the rest of Watson’s brain. It’d been so long since he’d been able to do this, since before he was injured. After the injury he’d figured he’d never have the chance again, that nobody would want a broken man who’d angered the gods. His soldier’s training had Watson align his cock with Sherlock’s right thigh, the one facing Moran. Hopefully, this position would hurt Sherlock least and block Moran’s view most. With a unified mind of desire, Watson began rutting against Sherlock. 

All praises to Aphrodite, or whichever god was in charge of beauty, because this Sherlock was gorgeous. No more words than he’d said; he also seemed pretty smart, so Athena was due a few offerings as well. Watson wasn’t a religious man, no matter what’d he’d said to Ares after that one battle, (in Ares’ spacious tent with all that lubrication and his toy collection) but Sherlock was worth a few sacrifices to various gods. Watson was harder now then he could remember being, and already hated himself. 

“Sir!” 

The barked word got enough of Watson’s attention that he looked for the source. A soldier was standing beside Moran, saluting and holding out a message, eyes wide at the sight on the bed. Watson found he didn’t care and kept rubbing against Sherlock’s long stretch of thigh. 

Sherlock wasn’t hard, but it would have been a miracle if he was, considering his injury and the pain he must have been in. He was still kissing Watson, mouth moving down to bite playfully at his collarbone. His occasional moan was really speeding up the proceedings, and Watson thought he’d be able to last longer if the man just shut up. That clever mouth worked its way back up to Watson’s ear, to play with an earlobe while the door was slammed. 

“They’ve gone; Moran was called in by his boss.” Sherlock wasn’t whispering, but his voice was still soft; still a soft, deep noise that was making Watson’s blood boil with every syllable. “You can get off now.” 

“So close.” Watson tried to explain that the double meaning of that phrase wasn’t helping even if he did know what Sherlock meant. Tried to explain that all of Watson, his conscious and practical nature, was so close to orgasm that he couldn’t stop or move away. “Sorry, so beautiful. Need!” 

“Watson.” Sherlock growled. Perhaps it was a warning about not rutting up against the injured man, but he _growled_ it. The deep purr had Watson tensing, shooting his load into the blanket under him. Sherlock started to worry about how still the man was, and changed tactics. 

“Watson?” He asked in confusion. 

Watson shuddered, utterly spent and still loving that voice, before managing to fling himself off the bed and onto the floor. As he started breathing again, he tried to apologize a little more articulately this time. 

“Sorry, so sorry. It’s been so long, and you’re so beautiful and smart. You’ve known exactly what to say or do to keep me out of trouble despite not knowing anything about me. Not good reasons for ejaculating all over your sick bed but, shite!” Explanations could wait, and Watson rolled to his feet. 

Moving over to the fire, Watson started it back up and put the kettle on to boil. He had to clean Sherlock’s wounds, make sure he wasn’t bleeding and then Watson could get back to apologizing. Watson found a clean blanket and bandages while the kettle warmed. With some warm water in a bowl, he washed Sherlock down. With the fresh blanket covering Sherlock’s long, pale, soft, slightly dusted with hair, beautiful legs… 

Watson shook his head and moved the old blanket so he could check the wound. It had bled a little but his rutting hadn’t pulled out any of the stitches. Relieved and yet feeling guilty, Watson re-bandaged the wound before letting himself look Sherlock in the face. 

Sherlock was staring at him, with the full intensity of his mercurial eyes, and Watson blushed. 

“You’re wrong.” Sherlock broke the silence with that simple phrase. 

Confused about what he was wrong about, Watson licked gently at his lower lip. 

“I know all about you. That’s how I know what to say to keep you here and healing me.” 

“What’d Mike say?” 

“Nothing. I know you were Initiates at the temple of Asclepius together. You’re a few years younger than Mike, so you were admitted early. Lied about your age? No, you were seen trying to care for injured kids or animals. The temple didn’t want the competition of an actual healer, so they inducted you, without asking, made it sound like it was ordained by the gods.” 

Watson’s tongue was so shocked it stayed out in mid top lip lick to better hear what was going on. 

“Everybody liked you, except the priests in charge. You wanted to actually heal people, and the temple just prays over everybody, waiting for uncaring gods to intervene and collecting bribes.” 

Swallowing heavily was easier if the tongue was in the mouth, so it reluctantly returned to its post in Watson’s mouth. 

“Bet you asked questions all the time. Why did this kid die and that drunkard live? Head priest said the gods willed it, and you grew to hate the gods. Were you thrown out or did you leave?” 

Watson shifted slightly where he sat on the edge of the bed. 

“Ran away then, before taking the final vows. Angered the head priest, so you couldn’t stay in Athens. Joined the military, learned to heal people in the field, even if those practices did come from repairing the wineskins mercenaries pulled off their dead colleagues. You’re steady and calm in a crisis, yet ready for a fight. I bet you were magnificent in battle.” 

Watson blinked, surprised by the words. 

“Oh, don’t be like that. It’s not a compliment if it’s the truth.” Sherlock rolled his eyes before going back to studying Watson’s face. “Shoulder injury got you kicked out of the military, and at some point you renewed your association with Mike. He doesn’t blame you for deserting the temple, yet is a priest himself. He was interested in your methods, but not enough to risk his position. A comfy coward, easy to read, but a healer-soldier is harder to figure out.” 

“Brilliant.” Watson remarked, surprised by how much amazement was in his voice. 

“What?” It was Sherlock’s turn to blink, surprised by Watson’s words. 

“That is brilliant, can you do that with everybody? Yeah, Mike’s easy, and I thought I’d be easy too, but still, very impressive!” 

“That’s not what people usually say.” 

“What do people usually say?” 

“Well, I was prepared to remind you that I was too sick to be thrown out, because that’s the response I was expecting.” 

“People are idiots.” Watson said. 

Sherlock smiled, surprise still in his eyes. 

Watson started to laugh, and tried to smother it. 

Sherlock found himself laughing back, holding his stomach, delighted by the giggle that was emerging from Watson. 

Watson managed to stop first, moving away to make them tea and breakfast. He knew he’d have bandages to boil and extra laundry to do, besides cooking and cleaning up after Sherlock, but Watson didn’t mind. He blamed his training as a healer, because that was easier than admitting to loneliness, and went about his day. Watson would be putting the breakfast on plates before he remembered he was stark naked. 

  


  



	2. Vidi

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everybody sees what's going on, except John and Sherlock, naturally.

Mike stopped by that afternoon with biscuits and some clothes for Sherlock, waking patient and healer from naps. They had a quiet cup of tea where Watson didn’t tell Mike about Moran’s second visit. It would be the next morning before Watson would let Sherlock sit up. Hunched over for most of the day, Watson decided he was too old to be sleeping on the dirt floor. Watson also found that rutting against a man removed any embarrassment when it came to holding that man’s cock so he could pee in a pot. 

Sherlock was forced to be still and rest while Watson cleaned and cooked. They managed this in a surprisingly comfortable silence. Sherlock only spoke to whine about what he needed or to make random comments that he wouldn’t explain. Eventually he decided he needed to talk about walking around the room until Watson agreed to help him do it just to shut him up. Watson couldn’t use his cane while acting as Sherlock’s, but an exhausted Sherlock was grinning as he was lead back to his bed. The grin held an ‘I know something you don’t’ superiority, so, naturally, Watson tried to ignore it. 

“Stew for supper, then you sleep.” Watson commanded as he arranged Sherlock back into his sitting position. 

“Brother, dear.” 

Both men froze at the words, but Sherlock didn’t have to look behind him to know the feminine voice wasn’t directed at him. 

“There are easier ways of announcing you’ve found a man than making him walk around naked.” 

Now, Sherlock did turn to look out the small door at the back the hut, and at the woman standing there. The long hair held up in a lose pile was the same color as Watson’s. Her nose was smaller but there were still enough similarities that Sherlock would have known they were siblings even if she hadn’t announced that fact. 

“Ignore her, Sherlock. She’s the only one who can see in that window, her house shares the garden. Bought this place so I’d be close to my sister; didn’t know it’d be that close.” 

Watson covered Sherlock before moving over to speak to Harriett. “What’s wrong?” 

“Why does something have to be wrong? Maybe I just saw a tall naked man in my brother’s house and wanted to see more.” 

“Let me think. Your one time with a man had you pointing and laughing, so I don’t think you came over for a quick ogle.” 

“He was definitely more interested in men; he just wanted to see what the big deal with women was.” 

“And you did it because you were…” Watson trailed off, very careful not to look in Sherlock’s direction. 

“What? Too embarrassed to tell your new boyfriend that your sister’s the town drunkard?” 

“Harriet!” Watson spoke through a clinched jaw before taking a cleansing breath. “I was trying to spare your feelings, not his.” 

“No need to try and spare my feelings.” Sherlock called, clutching the blanket around his chest. “I can see your disappointment in her from here, and smell the ale.” 

“Watson! Are you going to let this person talk to me like that?” 

“A good question.” Moran called, slipping silently in the front door. 

Watson reached up to rub at his forehead and mutter, “I’ve got to find money for a lock.” 

“Come on, Watson, who are you going to side with? Your sister or your lover?” 

“Moran, what are you doing here? I thought we settled this, Sherlock is my lover.” 

“Ha! I knew it.” Harriett muttered to the doorframe. “Watson’s a sap for anybody taller than him.” 

“I’m here to maintain the law and the will of the gods.” Moran pulled out one of Watson’s chairs and arranged it. When Moran sat, he had a clear view of the bed and the back door. “Found a dead body a few streets over, and I’m questioning people. Do any of you know who might have killed Marcus?” 

“Never heard of him.” Harriett offered. 

“I’m crippled and couldn’t harm anyone.” Watson said in a calm voice, knowing nobody in his house would believe him. 

“Who is your boss?” Sherlock demanded, catching everybody’s attention. “Who do you report to, Moran? I want his name so I can complain about this harassment of Watson.” 

The silence was broken by Watson’s badly suppressed giggle. Moran fingered his dagger while glaring daggers at Watson, until they both regained their composure. Moran was the first to give voice to his thoughts. 

“Don’t worry, Sherlock, was it? I’ll be forwarding your name and comments on to Him. In the morning, of course, as I’ll be spending the night here.” 

“What?” Three voices cried, for the first time (and only time) in complete agreement. 

“You are required by law to quarter troops when their duties keep them from returning home or to the guardhouse. I’m a troop, and I’m not going home.” 

“That’s not the meaning of the law, and both you and your boss will be in trouble when I report this to the proper authorities.” Sherlock growled out his warning, while Watson and Harriett exchanged a conversation filled glance. 

Moran thumped his booted feet up on the table and grinned at Sherlock. “My Boss is going to love you; he has a very special place for the innocent and stupid.” 

“Moran!” Watson made his voice strong enough to get everybody’s attention; even Sherlock listened as his eyes catalogued all the weaknesses in Moran’s armor, should the need to kill him in the dark come up, as these things occasionally did. 

“I only have the one bed.” Watson continued, as man of the house. “The law does not require that I give it up to you. Are you really going to sleep on the floor because your boss hates me?” 

“Hates you? Watson, you silly man, if He hated you, you’d be dead and not even the gods would find your body.” The boots came off the table so Moran could lean forward and add menace to his words. “Because _I_ hate you, I’d make you beg for death, though you wouldn’t get it until He said so.” 

“So, you _will_ be sleeping on the floor?” Watson asked, sounding as if it was only the sleeping arrangements that affected him in any way. 

“No. I’m going to be sitting it this chair, watching you two sleep together. He asked me how you both managed on such a little cot of a bed.” Settling back in his chair, Moran crossed his arms over his chest. “And you will finish that little show you started yesterday.” 

“Not in front of my… her.” Watson stumbled over his words, clearly not wanting Moran to know who Harriet was. 

“Your sister, Harriet? Drunkard and Sapphic lover?” Moran asked in only a slightly mocking tone. “Don’t be coy with me Watson. He’s done His homework, as He does on all His little projects. He just doesn’t think you’ll do that much to protect her, though we might have to try it eventually.” 

Watson’s hands gripped at his cane until the knuckles were white. 

“Watson!” Sherlock snapped, a question or an insult about to spew forth. 

Watson considered it might be an insulting question and stepped forward to prevent it. He rested a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder, squeezing just a little. 

“It’s fine. I don’t think we need to do yesterday’s show, but we can sleep with him in the room. He’ll get bored and leave us alone.” 

“Doubt it. Boss wants me here, here I’ll be.” 

Sherlock sucked in a breath through clenched teeth, and Watson realized he must have been squeezing Sherlock’s shoulder just a little harder than he meant to. It was an effort, but Watson forced his hand to relax, at least until Sherlock spoke. 

“We were going to have an early night to enjoy each other, but now you’ve reminded me of a letter I must write.” 

“Sure, you get some paper and send your letter. I’ll even let the drunk take it with her.” Moran was the picture of generosity, even as he continued. “Though, as a soldier, it would be dangerous and irresponsible of me to let a letter leave here without reading it first. I know a pretty boy like you wouldn’t try and get anything past me, but you might accidentally let something slip.” 

“Scroll and ink, if you please Watson.” Sherlock turned an innocent smile at Watson as he said this. 

Sure, Watson had paper and ink just sitting around when he didn’t even have a lock on the door. Rolling his eyes, Watson got his last clean scrap of paper and a stick of charcoal. The posh git would have to make do. Sherlock scratched out a note and handed it to Watson to hand to Moran. As Moran read, Sherlock told Harriet where to take the letter and just how much alcohol she could get out of the receiver. 

Watson wondered if Sherlock realized he was wiping charcoal dust off his hand and onto his right thigh. Up and down, with the same speed Watson had rutted against him. The rough, brown blankets were probably grating that fine skin, so white against the brown it was almost painful to look at. That skin was so soft to the touch, no matter what part of Watson had been touching Sherlock’s thighs, and would very much like to touch the rest of him. 

“Watson!” 

Watson jerked out of his lusty thoughts to turn to Moran. He was holding out the letter and smirking, as if he’d known what Watson had been thinking about. 

“Your sister can take this letter, while we get on with the entertainment portion of the evening.” 

Watson knew he was flushing, even as he grabbed the parchment. He gave it a quick read through before handing it to Harriet. 

_I’m fine in my new life. Don’t you dare come here!_

_My new man is as stubborn as you. The sister is carrying this letter; give her anything she wants to drink._

  


_Sherlock_

Harriet took the letter, read it and grinned as she ran back to her place. That letter wouldn’t get to wherever it was going any sooner if the god Mercury picked it up, winged sandals and all. Watson was more than a little disappointed it wasn’t a plea for assistance, but knew Sherlock couldn’t have sent that after all. Figuring his only hope was that Harriet liked what she was offered and stayed to talk, Watson went to sit next to Sherlock.

Moran got comfortable, unlacing his trousers to take his cock out. “I expect a good show tonight, and I want to see everything.” 

Repressing a heavy sigh and a desire to give Moran a very good show indeed, Watson turned to look at Sherlock. Sherlock pulled Watson into a kiss, a delicate chaste thing on Watson’s lips before Sherlock was kissing towards Watson’s ear. 

“I think if we kiss for a while, I’ll be able to participate some this evening. Don’t take offense if I have to fake an orgasm though.” 

“No whispering! I want to hear you stupid declarations of love or whatever.” 

Sherlock snapped his head around to glare at Moran, leaving Watson’s embarrassed flush unnoticed. He knew he was old and scarred, and he’d never been near Sherlock’s level of beauty, but it still hurt to hear that Sherlock would have to fake an orgasm. Sherlock’s voice was cutting and cruel as he snapped his words at Moran, but that didn’t make it any easier for Watson when he realized that predatory purr of the day before would never be directed at him. 

“I was gently sucking on his earlobe, knowing that gradually increasing the pressure will have him hard in under two minutes. I have often theorized that I could make him cum from this stimulation alone, but I suspected that might not be interesting to watch. For your comfort, Moran, I was about to tell Watson that I would gladly take him down my throat. It would have provided you with the best view, but now you’ve been a right git and I’ve gone off the idea.” With a theatrical sniff, Sherlock turned to stare into the fire, as if the great insult of the day was being told love was stupid. 

Despite his embarrassment, Watson was impressed with whatever the Hades Sherlock was doing. 

“Sounds good. Watson, suck Sherlock off. I want to see the bastard fall apart.” 

Watson turned back to Sherlock, determined to enjoy what he was being forced to do. Maybe he’d finally have pleasant dreams at night, even if he was racked with guilt during the day. Fortunately his lonely, boring life had plenty of room for more guilt and frustrated sexuality, so Watson kissed Sherlock for all he was worth. There was another moment of hesitation before Sherlock kissed him back, and Watson figured it was so Sherlock could pull up the image of who he wanted to suck him off. Watson closed his eyes though, and imagined it was a ‘happy to be there’ Sherlock under him. 

When he was hard, Watson reluctantly broke the kiss. Sherlock was probably a famous thespian, because he gave a very convincing moan of disappointment when Watson pulled away. Gently, reverently, Watson wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s torso to lower him to the bed. Sherlock tangled his fingers in Watson’s short hair, so it looked like a lover’s embrace instead of a healer caring for a wounded man. 

Once Sherlock was on his back, Watson moved to straddle the other end of the cot, dropping his trousers on the way. Sherlock’s long legs went around his left shoulder and right hip. Watson pushed the blanket up to Sherlock’s hips. Bandages covered, Watson let himself kiss down Sherlock’s leg, stroking with his hands and licking. Sherlock was so responsive, bouncing, purring and panting with each new movement and every bit of forward progress Watson made. Now Watson worked to keep his eyes open, like Moran, wanting to see Sherlock in the throes of passion. 

A gentle lick at Sherlock’s balls stopped his breathing and lifted his hips off the bed. Watson retained enough of his sanity to know that Sherlock didn’t need to be doing that and moved away from the tender balls. Watson cringed at how rough his hands looked as he held down Sherlock’s hips and determinedly looked toward Sherlock’s cock. Yeah, that was pretty enough to put rough worker’s hands from his mind. Watson grinned as he moved in for a taste. 

Putting the world out of his mind was easy as he focused on the task at hand, listening only to what Sherlock seemed to like. Sherlock made a surprised sound before going silent again, and with Sherlock’s very not fake ejaculation, Watson received a sense of pride. Watson might be ugly, but apparently there was one thing about him Sherlock liked. 

“Good job, Watson!” Moran clapped from where he sat. “Maybe that is what brings this beauty here, and maybe I’ll have a use for you after the Boss gets all the information from your head.” 

Sherlock didn’t have a snarky comeback, which surprised Watson more than the threat from Moran. Sherlock looked dazed when Watson dared to look at him again, and only seemed to come back to himself when Watson stroked his thigh. 

“Come up here, lover.” Sherlock commanded, his voice back in the tone that went straight to Watson’s cock. “Straddle my head, and I’ll take you to the Elysium Fields.” 

Watson complied, now sitting and facing the other way. His legs were folded under him, putting him at the right height for Sherlock to guide his cock into Sherlock’s mouth. With nothing to think about but the perfect lips surrounding his cock, long fingers stroking him, and the sight of it all, Watson didn’t last long. When the pain in his knee brought him back, he stumbled to his feet and looked at Moran finally. Moran had tucked himself away at some point and was now thinking as he looked at them. Sherlock tugged at him and Watson leaned over for kiss and a whisper. 

“Sleep between me and him, on your right side.” 

Watson gave Sherlock a kiss of understanding and looked to Moran. “Is it alright with you if we go to sleep now, Moran?” 

“Yes, I think that will do. You’ll want to be well rested for tomorrow.” 

Watson hadn’t made up his mind if he should take off his shirt or put his pants back on, but he put this decision on hold to ask, “What’s tomorrow?” 

“When my guards show up, I’m going to send them for the Boss. I think He’ll want to see how much you care for each other.” 

Sherlock’s arm tugged at Watson’s shirt, so Watson gave up on his clothing dilemma. Careful to pull the blanket over them without showing Sherlock’s bandages, Watson laid down. It took a bit of wiggling until Watson’s body matched Sherlock’s behind him, but they tried to make it look natural. Watson found it very comfortable and warm, but still didn’t expect to sleep. 

He could admit to a bit of a crush on the brilliant man behind him, but Sherlock didn’t know him well enough to endure torture. Even if they did survive the torture, Sherlock’s bandages were bound to be seen, and Watson would be screwed. Determined to spend the night thinking up ways to get Sherlock out of harm’s way, Watson didn’t see Morpheus slip up and knock him out. 

  


Watson awoke to the smell of badly made tea. The warm body behind him was much more appealing than finding out the source of that burnt tea smell, even if that body didn’t have the same issue with morning wood Watson did. Right, Watson remembered, it was Sherlock behind him, Sherlock who thought he was so ugly. Forcing his eyes open, Watson saw Moran just before Moran started threatening his teapot. Watson got out of bed while he could do so without flashing Sherlock’s bandages at their captor. Grabbing his pants and yanking them on, Watson grabbed his cane and growled at Moran.

“You’re not supposed to put the tea leaves _in_ the kettle.” 

Moran turned his threats to Watson, but Watson ignored him in favor of a private pee in the garden. Disappointment, anger, and Moran’s presence had taken care of Watson’s morning wood, so he was left to wonder how Sherlock was going to pee. He’d have to get dressed and come outside without Moran seeing the bandages or how painful it all was. Hoping Sherlock was as bright as he seemed, considering he didn’t seem to know how the real world worked, Watson went to see if Harriet had made it home. 

Sherlock was brilliant at reading people, but Moran, Harriet and Watson had all been amazed when Sherlock spoke yesterday. He actually thought complaining about Moran, or possibly even Moriarty and their treatment of Watson, would do any good. Moran was simply Moriarty’s minion, always following orders. Moriarty was the problem, and he had the position, wealth, and power to protect himself. A few layers of government were supposed to keep Moriarty in check, but he was a renowned oracle. His specialty was predicting violent, painful deaths, particularly for those who dared oppose him. 

Harriet wasn’t in her house, one smaller and messier than Watson’s. Had she returned last night, she’d still be sleeping off her indulgences. Hoping she was safe, wherever she was, Watson went back to his house. His soldier’s instincts were telling him that things were going to get very bad, very soon. That left him only Sherlock to try and protect, since Watson figured his life was over. The sight that greeted him when he walked in the back door of his place confirmed this dread. 

A man and a woman had just walked in the front door, in the stiffest formal togas Watson had ever seen. The man ignored Moran, which was never a good idea, to frown at the prone Sherlock. Sherlock was awake, purposely lounging on the bed as if it was the most comfortable one ever made. The blanket covered his bandages, but only just covered up the more interesting bits of his fine anatomy. Watson wrenched his eyes back to the man in the stiff toga. 

“Sherlock, you are coming with me, right now.” 

“You can’t make me. Watson has been good to me, and I will not desert him on your say so.” 

“Then he may come as well, and present his suit like a respectable suitor. If either man here can be considered respectable.” The sneer on his lip made both Watson and Moran stiffen at the insult. 

Sherlock laughed and flapped a hand at Moran. 

“Moran there is very respectable. He’s a brain-dead soldier for some very important person he won’t name. Considering the area of Athens we’re in, the reports I’ve overheard about this area, and how even Moran is scared of his boss, I believe it’s Moriarty’s turf.” 

“Amazing.” Watson didn’t realize he’d said that out loud until Sherlock rolled his head to see him. 

“You realize you do that out loud, Watson?” 

“Sorry, I’ll stop.” 

“No, go on, I don’t mind.” 

Watson gave a small laugh before he managed to hide it; laughing wasn’t the most appropriate response to a tense situation that would likely wind up with him being tortured. Looking away from Sherlock’s pleased face helped, but now Watson saw the calculating look on stiff toga man’s face. 

“Come Sherlock, Watson. We are leaving.” The man didn’t look like he expected an argument, but neither of the named men moved. 

“Pah!” Sherlock sneered from the cot. “You’ll have to carry me out to get me to leave.” 

Sherlock turned his back on the room and pulled the blanket up to his chin, exposing the legs Watson so enjoyed rutting against. Watson looked to stiff toga man, who turned to the woman beside him. She stepped outside, only to return a moment later with six heavily armed men. They each grabbed part of Watson’s cot, with Sherlock still on it, and carried it out the door. 

Watson followed, hoping Moran was dumb enough to attack them; Watson knew he’d never have better odds for defeating Moran. Moran wasn’t that stupid though, so he just stood by and watched as stiff toga man, his associate, Sherlock, Watson’s cot and Watson were situated onto a covered wagon. There were another four armed guards outside, and all ten of them walked beside the wagon as it left Watson’s house. 

Watson watched until Moran was lost in the twisting roads before he let himself grin, and bend over to talk to Sherlock. 

“That was brilliant! I know you sent for help somehow, which I wasn’t expecting, but carrying out the whole bed was the perfect way to get you out of there without me getting in trouble. How did you get this guy to come?” 

“Watson, is it?” Stiff toga man asked, forcing Watson to look at him instead of Sherlock. “Sherlock doesn’t ‘get’ me to do anything. He knows I will ask for recompense eventually.” 

“It was the note I sent with Harriet.” 

Stiff toga man blinked at Sherlock’s words, and Watson looked at Sherlock, who was grinning at him. Watson therefore missed the return of the calculating look on stiff toga man’s face. 

“I read that; was it code or something?” 

“No, that might have been broken. It was just mind games.” 

“Sherlock could never simply say he was in trouble, despite all the times he _has_ been in trouble and needed me to rescue him.” Stiff Toga man sounded curious and condescending at the same time, an interesting effect. 

“Name one time!” 

“When you tricked Hercules into doing your chores for you.” 

“That was your fault for thinking I’d clean out the stables just because you needed that king to agree to something.” 

“You tried to take Cerberus for a walk.” 

“Mummy wouldn’t let me have my own puppy.” 

“Mummy?” Watson accidently interrupted, suddenly suspicious of who stiff toga man was. 

“Yes, Mummy. Watson, this is my older, fatter, dumber brother, Mycroft.” 

“Hi.” Watson tried to look polite, but he was distracted by the anger that crossed Mycroft’s face at the word dumber. 

“This is my assistant, Anthea.” Stiff toga Mycroft nodded to the woman, who only briefly looked up from her writing. 

“Pleasure.” Watson nodded to the top of her head. 

“Because he is a stubborn fool, Sherlock would never ask for help.” Mycroft continued. “The note he sent me started out telling me he was fine.” 

“If I had been fine, I wouldn’t have put that in there at all. Inefficient.” Sherlock sneered out the last word, as if it were the root of all trouble in the known world. 

“Daring me to come and help him verified that he was injured and needing assistance.” 

“Like a code that would only work for the two of you.” Watson said, grinning at them both. “Am I really as stubborn as the two of you?” 

“That line didn’t refer to you.” Sherlock’s annoyance was clear. 

“Oh.” Watson said, his grin dropping off his face. He’d forgotten he was just along for the ride here. 

“Sherlock does not consider me a partner, so by comparing me to someone he was speaking of an enemy.” 

“An enemy? Try arch enemy.” This came with a sneer at Mycroft, who ignored it. 

“I don’t get along with my sister, but I don’t go around calling her my arch enemy.” Watson shrugged, not sure he’d be taken seriously. “Besides, didn’t the letter talk about her carrying the letter?” 

“If you remember Watson, it said ‘the’ sister. This was another indication that the new man wasn’t a friend to Sherlock. Had it said ‘his’ sister, I would have known to treat her differently.” 

“Can, uh, may I ask how you did treat my sister?” Watson asked formally, while letting them see the way his fingers were tightening on his cane. 

“Well, Watson. I treated her well.” Mycroft asserted firmly, but quickly. “My assistant served Harriet drinks and talked with her. After Harriet was given a place to sleep, Anthea explained things to me.” 

“So Harriet’s sleeping it off at your place?” 

“Safe and unmolested, though Anthea had to make an effort to escape her.” 

Watson winced and turned to the silent Anthea, who was still making notes on a scroll of parchment. “Sorry about that, Anthea. Harriet can be a handful when she’s had a bit, and she always had an eye for beauty.” 

Anthea flicked her eyes up at that. “She’s more my type than you.” 

Anthea went back to her writing, and Watson blushed, trying to find something to look at that wouldn’t turn him down. Even his bed was leaving him! 

“Sherlock, would you like to tell me why we had to rescue Watson’s cot with you?” 

“His sister didn’t know, but I was knifed open in a fight.” 

“Did you accept Asclepius’ help this time?” 

“His priest got me to Watson, who actually fixed me.” 

“Sherlock!” Watson dropped his face into his hands. Sherlock knew everything except that it was supposed to be a secret? 

“He sewed me up, like a ripped tunic. Washed the wound, kept it bandaged. He was an initiate to Asclepius but rejected the reliance on prayer thing.” 

“Ran off to the military, as you can see in his bearing.” Mycroft noted when Sherlock breathed. 

“Learned how to actually help people, until he was wounded. Took a spear to the left shoulder.” 

“Military would have expected him to die, and left him in the nearest temple.” 

“The temple where his friend Mike was, who knew enough about Watson’s techniques to save his life.” 

“Which would have gotten Mike in serious trouble.” 

“He’s still with the temple, so he was forced to take an oath of some sort.” 

“And when you refused prayer, as you are wont to do, he took you to Watson.” 

Watson was staring at both brothers through the gaps in his fingers, blown away to hear his life story chatted about in such a way. He had to defend Mike; it was enough that Sherlock was going to ruin Watson’s life. 

“Mike sewed my skin and cleaned it, put bandages and a poultice on my wound before the head priest even noticed me. They couldn’t kill me, so they made a big deal about leaving the decision up to Asclepius. When I woke up, they kicked me out of the temple. I lived anyway and Mike was demoted. They forced him to swear he’d never attempt anything so uncivilized again, even though he could have done a lot of people some good. I was also forced to swear not to use my skills or teach them to other people, or face the discipline of the temple. Mike will be punished if I do. So when you report me, would you please leave Mike out of it?” 

“Report you?” Mycroft asked, before sharing a glance at Sherlock. “You saved my brother’s life and expect me to turn you in as a reward?” 

“Moran is reporting your interference to Moriarty. They are insane, but rich and powerful enough to get away with anything. You’re obviously rich, but you don’t want Moriarty as an enemy, not over me.” 

“What does Moriarty want with you?” Sherlock was frowning as he asked, eyes intent on Watson. “You don’t seem that special.” 

Watson hoped the pain the words caused him didn’t show on his face. “He wants me to use my skills to make people live longer under interrogation. Apparently Moran kills them too quickly for Moriarty’s enjoyment.” 

The wagon came to a halt and armed guards reached up to help people down. Watson used the opportunity to break away from the heated conversation. The posh house he was standing in front of was a fantastic distraction. When a stiff toga stopped beside him, Watson forced his attention to its wearer. 

“Mycroft requests that I show you to your room, where you can bathe and change.” 

“Thank him please, Anthea. But, I can’t stay. I need to talk to my sister and get out of Athens.” 

Anthea looked down at her parchment, so Watson looked also. He saw several neat lines of print in a language he didn’t know, but she must have seen an answer in it. 

“Follow me, then.” 

Watson did as instructed, gladly following Anthea, and wishing her toga curved a little more around her arse. Gods, but sex with Sherlock, one sided though it was, had really woken up his libido! Forcing himself to think, Watson focused on what he needed to do. 

He’d explain things to Harriet, beg her to stay sober and go back to Clara. They loved each other, just fought like harpies over Harriet’s drinking. With Harriet looked after, he’d flee Athens. He’d find another militia willing to have him, one he’d hide his scar from. He’d change his name, but Moriarty would look for him in a familiar haunt. Watson would rather be killed on the battlefield than in Moriarty’s clutches, and there was always his own dagger to take to his breast. 

Anthea held a door open and Watson stepped through. Through an open door, Watson could see an inviting bathtub, water steaming. It was with regret that he moved to the left of the tub, figuring Harriett was behind that door. There was a well-appointed bedroom, but it lacked any bodies. Turning to frown at Anthea, Watson saw the main door was closed and he was alone. A quick jog showed the door was locked from the outside. 

“Anthea!” He called, hoping it wasn’t what it looked like. 

“Mycroft has asked that you bathe and change. Then you may look in on Sherlock.” 

“So I’m only a prisoner until his brother is healed?” 

“You are a guest, who doesn’t understand that he smells. I will return shortly.” 

Watson didn’t hear Anthea walk away, but he didn’t doubt she did. A more thorough survey showed Watson another door, but it, too, was locked. Deciding he may as well smell better when he was handed over to Moriarty, Watson went to take a bath. The water was warm and felt fantastic, leaving Watson far too much time to think about the hot water he was in. 

  



	3. Velcro

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Like the two sides of Velcro, are John and Sherlock...

When the bath water cooled enough to be uncomfortable, Watson got out. He found shaving equipment and mint leaves for his teeth, and indulged in making himself presentable. He even took the razor and scissors to his hair, getting rid of the extra length he’d been trying to let grow out. Civilians didn’t worry about their hair being yanked on in a fight, and he was making an effort at being a civilian; at being normal, unlike Sherlock. 

Sherlock still fought with people (and got knifed for his trouble), but he didn’t worry about that mop of curls being used against him. Watson couldn’t be the only one who wanted to run his hands in that hair, petting it in moments of quiet. And in moments when he was about to scream Sherlock’s name, as Sherlock sucked him from root to tip, Watson would grab a handful of head and hair, holding on to that lifeline of reality, using Sherlock’s head to anchor him to this world as he screamed and came. Watson grabbed his shirt, and spilled into it after his imagination finished exploring that sexy little side path. 

His clothes were filthy and smelly, even before this little masturbatory interlude, so Watson dropped them in the cold bathwater and scrubbed them clean. He needed to talk to Harriet and get out of town like Bacchus the day after a bender! Giving himself a haircut had led to jerking off over thoughts of Sherlock? Watson didn’t think he was in enough trouble with the edict of the gods hanging over him and Moriarty’s sick obsession, he had to go and lust after the first shag he’d had in years? It couldn’t be love, it was too new and he didn’t really know Sherlock for it to be love, but there was some serious lust there. 

Shaking these thoughts out of his head, Watson hung his clothes on various surfaces to dry. He’d need them when and if he was let out of this gilded prison. There were clothes laid out for him, and now he had to put them on. The tunic was easy enough, but the toga had a serious learning curve involved. He had to wind it around his left shoulder and arm, to keep his right arm ready for his cane. The toga was a bit long for him, so he had to practice walking so his cane wouldn’t get caught in the fabric. When the door opened, Watson hoped Anthea thought he was pacing, not practicing. 

She made a small noise of disapproval, and stepped up to him. The parchment was gone, so she could adjust his toga with both strong hands. Watson glanced at her, intending to apologize for his appearance, when the words fled. Anthea looked different. Maybe it was just because she wasn’t writing things down, but her nose seemed smaller. She hadn’t had that mole before, just in front of her ear and small enough to think it was a spot of ink. 

“Anthea?” He asked, wanting to confirm it was the same person. 

“Once you are presentable, I’m to take you to Mycroft and Sherlock.” 

Her voice was different, but the words and tone were the same. She was used to being obeyed, and had the power and authority to guarantee it. With a final pat, she stepped back to look Watson over. Satisfied with her adjustments, she turned and walked away. 

Watson followed, noting that the toga was suddenly shorter and easier to walk in. He also noticed her arse curved out her toga, where the Anthea of before hadn’t. Not the same woman, but similar looking. Sister maybe? Would Mycroft hire sisters for his assistants, expecting people not to notice the differences? 

From what Watson has seen, she was only a supporting character after all, hovering in the background and doing the grunt work. Important stuff, but easy for most people to ignore. Watson looked forward to running away from this version of his life and getting back to being a supporting character, like he used to be. 

Anthea (the second) stopped, and Watson managed not to smack into her, which was disappointing for the libido Sherlock had woken up. They were on some fancy steps leading into a fancier atrium, where people were gathered to argue. Anthea (the second) turned to Watson before he got a good look at the participants below and handed him a stack of papers. 

“Hold these, please, and wait here. Mycroft will be with you in a moment.” 

Watson took the stack and watched Anthea (the second) cross the courtyard and disappear into the building across the way. The sheets were full of tiny writing in a strange code, so Watson turned back to the fight. A pale woman with Sherlock’s eyes and Mycroft’s attempt at a chin was perched on a couch. Mycroft sat beside her, and together they watched the three other men yell. The three strangers seemed to be trying to convince Mycroft that he needed to return something. Tension spiked pain through Watson’s shoulder as he understood he was the subject under shouting discussion. 

Taking in the escape routes, Watson noticed a man off to his left. The man had an easel set up and was painting. Watson hoped he wasn’t ruining the painter’s view, but Anthea expected him to stay put. Looking closer, Watson noticed the painter looked a lot like one of the guards that had been with Moran that first night, except his hair was now blonde. Trying not to let the suspicion show up on his face, Watson decided to keep an eye on him. Wouldn’t do to have one of Moran’s men hiding in plain sight if Moriarty started something. 

The shouting stopped, and Watson was forced to look for the reason. Sherlock had appeared in the door Anthea (the second) used, and she was behind him. Forcing his eyes off Sherlock, who had bathed and dressed and looked fantastic in the toga he’d been given, wearing it with a natural ease that made Watson feel shabby. This time, Watson forced his eyes and his thoughts off Sherlock to take in the woman behind Sherlock. As suspected, not either of the Antheas Watson had met, but had the same description. Were they going to try and pass her off as Anthea the original? 

“Anthea,” Mycroft stood, disapproval in his voice. “I asked you to keep Sherlock in his room.” 

“Forgive me, sir.” She replied to the name, ducking her head a little. “He was most insistent.” 

“Mummy.” Sherlock sat where Mycroft had been a moment ago, bending over to kiss the check of the woman on the couch. 

Anthea (the third) didn’t seem put out by Mycroft’s disapproval, which had gotten injured Sherlock a place to sit. Watson almost laughed, realizing Mycroft had sent Anthea the second, Watson corrected himself (and then decided to forget about keeping track, since no one else even seemed to notice). Mycroft had sent Anthea (whichever) to get Sherlock, and pretended disapproval to allow Sherlock to sit down. It was a plan, so surely it meant Mycroft had a plan for the three buffoons that resumed talking down to him? 

“Mycroft, you must see that Moriarty will reclaim what he sees as his.” 

“Watson is a freeborn, and entitled to all the rights that entails.” Mycroft didn’t acknowledge Watson’s existence, even as he fought for his right _to_ exist. “Moriarty is dangerous, but it is not for any of us to decide if he is more dangerous than useful.” 

A messenger darted into to the courtyard, dropping to one knee before handing a note to Anthea (the third… stop that, Watson told his brain, it’s getting annoying). She found another piece of paper, scribbled off a quick note, and the messenger was up and running again. Anthea held the note out where only Mycroft could read it, removing it as soon as he was done. 

“Gentlemen, the time for deliberations appears to be at an end. Moriarty has come to claim his prize. Anthea will show you out, should you find you have urgent business elsewhere.” 

Oddly enough, the three men who feared Moriarty, did have urgent business elsewhere and couldn’t follow Anthea fast enough. As they exited through one doorway, Anthea the fourth (for crying out loud) entered with Moriarty and Moran behind her. Between Mummy, Mycroft, Moriarty and Moran, Watson considered he should rename himself Matson, with his innumerable friend, Manthea. 

Going insane before the torture? He was in so much trouble, and all for Sherlock. 

“Moriarty, I wish to register a complaint with you.” Sherlock sneered from where he sat, before cutting his eyes over to Watson. Sherlock grinned, as if complaining about Moran was the funniest joke yet invented. 

Watson found himself grinning back. Insane before the torture it was, then. 

“Sherlock, dear, Moran has told me about you, and I think we’ve just gotten off to a bad start. I’ll discipline Moran, don’t you worry your pretty head about that, but Watson will have to be there to make sure Moran survives the punishment you’ve demanded.” 

“Are you trying to emotionally extort me?” Sherlock looked at Moriarty, confused and surprised by the tactic. “Won’t work, no heart. Though I could help you with the torture if I don’t have anything else going on that day.” 

“Oh,” Moriarty’s changeable face pouted in sympathy. “Don’t worry, I’m very good at finding the heart of the matter, even if burning hot coals are involved.” 

Heads turned, as every eye in the courtyard sought out Watson, standing on the step. Watson turned to see who was behind him but stopped halfway, remembering. He was supposed to be Sherlock’s love interest, which was their cover story for Moran. Turning fully back to the crowd, Watson hoped he wasn’t as bright red as he thought he was. 

“Yes, this thing between Watson and my brother was rather sudden for all of us, but I can assure you it is real. Anthea.” 

At the name, the woman (women?) seemed to know what to do. She walked over to the painter and whispered to him. Watson was so happy he couldn’t remember which Anthea she was, he didn’t quite register Mycroft’s words. 

“As you can see, the two have posed for their engagement portrait for several sessions now.” 

The painter had turned it around, so everyone could see. A toga wearing, neatly groomed Watson was standing beside Sherlock, looking as if he belonged there. Dropping his left arm, Watson tucked his arms and the papers he was holding behind his back. Portrait was posed for weeks ago, really. Assuredly not when he’d walked out on this step, and he tried to get that show in his expression. 

  


“Oh, clever, having Watson slapped into a painting of Sherlock you’ve had laying around.” Moriarty’s voice was high pitched and mocking, and Watson imagined what it would sound like if he grabbed Moriarty by his balls and pulled.

“Or maybe it is exactly what I said it was. Which can you prove, Moriarty?” Mycroft’s voice was still calm and even. “Either way, you know how important family is to our society, and the leeway I’ll be granted to protect mine.” 

“You are not a god, Mycroft. Sherlock and I will have plenty of fun, and we won’t play with you.” With his nose thrust into the air, Moriarty stomped off. 

For all Moriarty looked like a toddler taking his toys and going home, Moran followed behind him like the world’s most violent mother protecting her child. Watson raised a hand to his mouth to bite on, lest his giggles bring Moran back with something deadlier than his death-glare. 

“Sherlock, dear?” Mummy asked, her voice strong and confident. 

“Yes, Mummy?” 

“I’ve already started planning the wedding, so don’t screw this up.” 

“Mummy!” Sherlock’s protests fell on uninterested ears, as Mummy allowed Mycroft to help her up from the sofa. They walked out together, leaving Sherlock to incinerate the picture with his eyes. 

Watson went over to stand beside him, letting Sherlock’s eyes settle on him instead. 

“If you’re going to make people think you have a limp so you can carry your weapon around as a cane, you should sit down whenever possible.” Sherlock was annoyed, but not, it seemed, with Watson. “It will help sell the idea.” 

“Thank you. I’ll try to remember that.” Watson sat, wondering how Sherlock had figured out the cane was just a portable weapon, since he’d swore to give up his sword. “After I make sure you are alright, I need to talk to Harriet and leave.” 

“You can’t leave, Mummy is planning the wedding.” 

“You could just explain to her that it was to keep me safe. I think she’d understand.” 

“No she won’t. She’s been after me to find someone for ages now. We’ll just have to go through with it.” 

“Sex is one thing, but I don’t think we can fake a lifetime together.” 

“Fine. We won’t get married. Whatever! But you can’t leave me, do you hear me?” 

“What?” Watson blinked back, startled by the intense emotions suddenly in Sherlock’s voice. He sounded worried, almost broken, far too serious for a fake marriage to a man he didn’t care for. 

“You can’t leave me, John! I have to solve you.” Sherlock sobbed, and Watson (John, his Anthea counting voice whispered) did the only thing he could think of. It was hard, as if he was being held down or back, but Watson pushed forward and kissed Sherlock. It was a cold, hard and stiff, as if surprised by it all kiss, but Watson only stopped when he tasted blood. 

Blinking at the bright light inside the ambulance, John remembered what he needed to tell Sherlock. “Hercules, Xena, Anthea, many into one, like Barbosa.” 

“Brilliant, John.” Sherlock whispered, and John tried to remember why Sherlock would be whispering or why his own voice was so low and rough, but sleep pulled him back. Morpheus could be every bit demanding as drugs in an IV bag, the drip. 

  


The ambulance beat Lestrade to the A&E by seven minutes and twelve seconds. Lestrade counted while Dimmock drove, watching time pass on his phone as he waited for Sherlock’s demanding texts. Not getting those texts rather freaked Lestrade out; Sherlock must have been driving the hospital staff crazy, if he couldn’t be bothered to annoy Lestrade. Or, something had happened to John, and Lestrade only had vague, disturbing ideas about what that would do to Sherlock.

Running into the waiting room, without waiting for Dimmock, Lestrade had no idea what to make of what he saw. Sherlock was there, staring that the doors John must have been taken through. Just standing, staring, unaware that Lestrade was even there, Sherlock held his fingers to his lips and saw something other than the door. 

“Sherlock.” His name didn’t get a reaction out of him, so Lestrade placed a hand on his shoulder. 

Sherlock jerked, staring down the hand and arm until he found Lestrade’s connected and concerned face. 

“How is John?” That name got through, even though Sherlock kept his hand on his lips. 

“He kissed me.” 

“What?” Lestrade didn’t think he’d heard that right, as Sherlock’s fingers were still on his lips. Despite what certain members of the Yard (all of them really) thought, Lestrade knew better. Sherlock’s plush arse wasn’t John’s reward for putting up with him. Lestrade had done the unimaginable; he’d take John out for a pint and asked. John had rolled his eyes and declared his heterosexuality. 

“He, John Watson, kissed, placing lips to anatomy, me, Sherlock Holmes, in the ambulance, with the IV bag bouncing against my head.” 

Sherlock Holmes, in the ambulance, with the IV bag. Lestrade considered he’d never played Cluedo that way, which was probably why he’d stopped playing. But if Sherlock was hung up on the kiss, he sure wasn’t thinking about anything but John, who might be dying at this moment. A distraction was clearly in order, and Lestrade decided to go with Sherlock’s first love, now that he apparently had a second. 

“Did he say anything about the case?” 

“He kissed me.” Sherlock nodded, though Lestrade wasn’t sure at what. 

“What did John say?” Using John’s name as a magic word seemed to be working. 

“Hercules, Xena, Anthea, many into one, like Barbosa.” Sherlock shrugged, hand still holding the kiss to his lips. “Gibberish.” 

“Not gibberish: pop culture, stuff John knows. Well, some of it anyway. Hercules and Xena were telly shows. Anthea is Mycroft’s assistant, which you know, and there was a Greek goddess by that name or something. Other than that I don’t know what he was on about, but he must have thought it important.” 

“Not as important as the kiss.” 

“Kissed you first?” 

“First. Our first kiss, and John won’t remember it.” Sherlock’s voice was calm, indicating he was still processing what had happened. 

“Talk to him, and it won’t be your last.” 

“He won’t want another, when he’s well. He’s not gay.” 

“Sherlock,” Lestrade started, but trailed off as he considered what to say. He couldn’t promise John would be alright, he couldn’t swear John would want another kiss, and he couldn’t slap Sherlock upside the head and tell him to make a move on John already. John might not be gay now, but Sherlock could be very persuasive about persuasions. 

“Sherlock, I don’t know what to say, except you better know why John said what he said. Otherwise he’s more likely to punch you when he wakes up then kiss you.” 

That got a glare out of Sherlock, which made him look a lot more controlled. 

“Punch or kiss, your choice.” 

“Fine!” Sherlock snapped, hand moving off his lips to pull out his cell. As he typed and scrolled, Lestrade was left to worry without distraction. If anything happened to John, would he be able to save Sherlock? 

  


John knew he’d woken up a few times, but between the drugs and his body’s healing process, he couldn’t swear he’d been coherent those times. Now as he woke, he could tell the drugs were out of his system. He was thirsty and his right arm was strapped to the bed. Why would they do that for a knife wound to the stomach? Licking his lips and opening his eyes was his only hope of getting an answer. 

Long, talented fingers were wrapped around his right wrist, heavy as their attached body slept on. John had felt bound when he woke, but seeing it was Sherlock’s hand made him feel like he was flying. So maybe the drugs weren’t completely out of his system, but he still should be able to stay awake longer than two minutes. Sherlock’s head was resting by John’s hip; either that, or a poodle had invaded the hospital and fallen asleep on John’s bed. Sherlock never slept enough, so John was loath to wake him, which meant the water John desperately needed was on his right side. That was the way the world worked. 

Reaching across his chest with his left hand, without moving his sore stomach, John could just reach the lip of the cup. Deciding all he needed was a little more thrust, John readied himself for any pain and sat up a little. He reached the cup just as Sherlock reached awareness, thrusting himself upright and pushing on John’s hip. John reached to stop himself from falling off the bed, spilling water over everything and slicking his gripping surface. Sherlock released his wrist and made a grab for his torso instead, keeping John from face planting on the floor. 

They stayed that way for a few moments, before carefully manhandling John back onto the bed. While John did a quick survey of his bandages, looking for blood, Sherlock poured a new cup of water and produced a straw. He handed John his chart, and held the cup while John drank and read. 

“He did nick the bowel then, but no signs of sepsis yet, so you did a good job containing the bleeding. Paramedics were thorough, but as a surgeon I wouldn’t have risked a general anesthesia when a local would have done.” 

“Are you done being Doctor Watson?” Sherlock asked, annoyance firmly in place. “I need assistant consulting detective Watson.” 

“Live-in assistant consulting detective Watson, at your service.” 

“That thug got in a lucky slice, you talked me through calling the ambulance and holding the wound before you passed out. Then you woke up in the ambulance and,” Sherlock hesitated only briefly. “You solved the case.” 

“I did?” 

“Spot on, once I deciphered your gibberish. Now I want you to walk me through it, show me how you got there.” 

“Same way you did.” John managed to get the words out with a straight face, but at Sherlock’s shocked expression he had to laugh. “Don’t be like that, we both know nobody thinks like you.” 

Mollified, Sherlock refilled John’s glass and held it so he could take more sips between words. 

“Let’s see. Gang of thieves, you thought one of the three girlfriends of the leaders was actually the brains of the outfit. Sources said the real leader was an Elizabeth Barbossa, a fictitious name. Each of the girlfriends had an alibi for each of the robberies. I thought it was too tidy, too perfect that they alibied each other for two of the robberies and had a third party alibi for the other. It had to be planned out, but I wasn’t sure why.” 

“I was looking to break those alibies, not prove them.” 

“That’s your excuse for letting me solve the case first?” 

“Breaking alibies is a standard method of determining who is lying.” 

“Right.” John took an unwanted sip of water just to make Sherlock squirm. “While I was unconscious, I had this really weird dream, about Greek gods and such.” 

“Was I the deity of reason, justice or intelligence?” 

“You remember those gods?” 

“No, just the concept that Greeks had a god for everything.” 

“You were Sherlock.” 

“As long as you followed me around calling me brilliant, I’m fine with being Sherlock.” 

“Well, good. Because I was.” 

“Following me around and calling me brilliant?” 

“Maybe just a little, and wipe that smug look off your face.” John rolled his eyes to fight off the grin that was trying to come out. “Anthea was Anthea, always Mycroft’s assistant.” 

Now Sherlock’s eyes went for a roll. 

“It was important that Mycroft was there. Anthea kept disappearing, being replaced by similar women, all acting like Anthea. I used to watch Hercules and Xena, telly shows you’d have deleted, and they’d have one character played by several different actors. Or they’d take a background character for one episode and make them a more important character in another, just changing the hair a little. Like the audience wouldn’t notice, or all the actors were on strike.” 

“That’s what led you to deduce Elizabeth Barbossa’s identity?” Sherlock’s disbelieving tone was laced with disgust at the idea that popular culture could help with a case. 

“Yes. Three women, one role, and nobody was supposed to notice. All three of the women took turns pretending to be Elizabeth Barbossa, so they couldn’t take the blame for the crime. One of the alibies with each other was a lie, but the other two alibies were true.” 

“I found the proof of that, since you showed me where to look.” 

“Showed you? So instead of a conductor of light I’m a torch now?” 

Sherlock considered. “Lighthouse?” 

“In London?” 

“You be my personal lighthouse, and I’ll take you to the beach, one night a year.” 

“I’d rather be your…” John sucked back his next word so violently he started coughing. 

Sherlock held the cup even closer, but wasn’t looking at John. 

By the time John had recovered from the coughing, he knew something else had happened since he’d been gutted. Before he could ask, there was a nurse at the door and medical stuff to get through. 

  


Sherlock stepped into the hallway when the parade of medical personal showed up, supposedly to let everyone know John was awake. A single text to multiple phones took care of that. He knew he should have called the nurses the second John woke, but curiosity was always his most powerful motivator. Well, before John, curiosity and the need to know where Sherlock’s only motivations. 

Ever since The Kiss, Sherlock had been burning with curiosity about John, and the need to know if there could be a John and him. Which was extremely irritating, as he’d securely locked love, lust and sex in his mind palace under ‘motivations’ and not been bothered by them since; that is, until John got all kissy face in the ambulance. He’d always been kissable, but Sherlock had been able to ignore that on John ‘I’m not gay’ Watson. 

Sherlock had spent John’s surgery reading the wiki for the telly shows John had mentioned, but had resorted to watching the videos available in hopes of understanding. He’d been wishing John was with him to mock the terrible wigs when he noticed one of the Amazons. Blonde in _Hercules and the Amazon Women_ , but they’d dyed her hair black so she could play Xena. Maybe John had meant many characters into one actress? 

That realization had come with several others, ones that were not as easy to deal with. A few quick checks had determined which of the alibies were false, and Sherlock had sent Lestrade away with that information. He’d had to sit, and wait, and worry about John ever since, wondering how soon after an injury it was acceptable to admit to emotional complications. 

Too soon, and John would claim it was the fear, adrenaline and other body chemicals talking. Or that’s what Sherlock would have normally said, so there was no telling what John would have said, as that ordinary man was always surprising Sherlock. He’d been so close to admitting to it all when John’s choking attracted that nurse, the one that was walking toward him. 

“Mr. Watson says you can go back in.” 

“It’s Doctor Watson.” Sherlock snarled as he pushed by her. It was her first day back at work after a long (romantic getaway with boyfriend: tan outline of sunglasses: bags under eyes: cried last night: he didn’t propose like she expected but still together: live in separate flats: she won’t move in without an engagement: old fashioned or from religious family and trying to hide her sexual nature) weekend and he hadn’t offended her before. 

Nurses and doctors annoyed by choice of flatmates weren’t likely to hit on Dr. Watson, even if John thought Sherlock was naturally _that_ annoying. Sherlock was easily _that_ annoying, but some people just deserved his ire: stupid people, and people trying to steal his John. Just to reinforce the idea he’d been planting since John wound up in this stupid hospital, Sherlock stood in the room and glared at everybody. The staff responded too well, quickly finishing their business and leaving John alone with Sherlock. 

“I don’t think those thieves are likely to try to kill me, the staff is just doing their jobs, so I don’t think you need to act like my guardian gargoyle.” John’s voice was stern, but there was amusement in his eyes. 

“You forget, I observe far more than you do.” Sherlock put on his best ‘I know better’ voice, knowing John would see through it. Hear through it? 

“So the phlebotomist was hired by Moriarty to puncture me to death?” 

“Was Moriarty in your dream?” 

“Why?” 

“Why what?” 

“Seriously? Why does it matter to you, Sherlock, if Moriarty was in the dream and/or delusion I, John, had while on my way to hospital, whichever hospital this is?” 

“I like details.” Lofty voice, with a gesture of dismissal to say this wasn’t a big deal. 

“Not about dreams.” John shrugged a tiny bit, not buying Sherlock’s ‘all is normal’ attitude. 

“You did something when you woke up, before you spoke, and I want to know more about it.” 

“It would help if I knew what I did.” Watson was reason itself, but he was arguing with logic personified (or so Sherlock liked to think of himself). 

“Would ruin the experiment if you knew what I wanted to know.” 

“Fine, let me think about it.” John seemed annoyed, but his eyes lost focus as he worked to recall the details of his dream. 

Sherlock tried not to lean in when he saw John’s eyes go wide in panic. A lovely blush was working its way across John’s face and Sherlock thought about tracking it with his tongue. Would he be able to taste the heat difference? 

“Sherlock, I need to know what I did in the ambulance.” 

“Can’t tell you, will skew the results.” 

John was too panicked to wait for his eyes to roll and started speaking. “I did three things in the dream, four if you count the thing after the bath. No, three, because the first two were the same just against different bit, or was that two making five?” 

“Gibberish! What, are you trying to reach a specific word count or something?” 

“What?” 

“Elucidate.” 

“In the ambulance, did I hump your leg, suck your cock, try to get you to suck my cock, masturbate to the idea of you giving me a blow job, or kiss you?” 

“I love the way you make questions angry.” After the words were out, Sherlock considered that might have been neither the most coherent response, nor the most conducive to getting out of this room with his dignity intact. 

“You want to see me angry? Don’t answer one of my angry questions.” 

“I’d like to hear about all of those things.” 

“Sherlock.” John only got the name out before laying his head back. The nurses had sat him up, but that didn’t make this conversation any more comfortable. “Sherlock, I didn’t realize I had a fear of being treated like Harry that was disguising a bisexual nature. I had to go back, in my mind at least, to a time when everybody was bisexual to figure it out. Imaginary sex with you, without the modern problems and hang-ups, was spectacular and addictive. My main worry was that you wouldn’t want me, for all my faults. So, for the last time, hopefully, allow me to say; I’m not gay. I’m bisexual, if it means I get to have sex with you.” 

Sherlock’s hand was back on John’s wrist, and John lifted his head to smile at the contact. 

“I love you, Sherlock, and if we could add sex to our life, I’d really like that.” 

“That can be arranged, but only because I love you back.” Sherlock flicked his eyes around the room, keeping them in his head by flicking his head as well. He had the layout memorized, so this was just a show for John’s benefit. “It will be a private room when I disable Mycroft’s cameras, if you wanted to demonstrate your dream for me.” 

John laughed, holding his stomach as injured Sherlock had in his dream. Sherlock laughed back, downright giddy at the thought of turning his friend into his lover. Sharing laughter was the most natural thing in the world, so Sherlock leaned his mouth in to do just that. The laugh faded, but the kiss remained, deepening as they learned what they enjoyed. John turned his head away first, eyes closed as he whispered. 

“Sorry, but if you keep kissing me like that, we’ll have to disable the cameras.” 

“Not a problem.” 

John’s hand shot out and clamped around Sherlock’s wrist, keeping the man from disabling things. 

“Not for you, but I’ve lost blood and don’t think I can, uh, keep up.” 

“But, after you’re healed?” 

“After I’m healed, you’ll have to gut me again to get me to stop.” 

Grasping John’s hand, Sherlock shook it firmly, solemnly. “Deal.” 

  



End file.
